On this street, looking different people near me,
releasing many characters.
The notebook is there, it's ready to catch a clumsy contact that it will be:
sooner or later, you will have an answer...
10 chapters, many stories...
A man opens a paper bag, sad sad,
throws breadcrumbs into the air,
to test the greed of a seagull.
In his crumpled suit, sad sad,
he pulls out a whole sandwich.
Then one after the other following a flock
which grows larger.
Who knows if the diners notice
the deep furrow on the face
of that man who wants to share a twist of fate.
I wonder if they can interpret the ending
they have in common.
It would be a slap in the face not to know
what they re dealing with.
While another seagull manages
to snatch a greedy meal
from the air, overcomes its shyness and risks a kiss
on the forehead of his new friend.
The agreement is already established.
Hunting for unexploded firecrackers
to shatter you in episodes.
Small artifices, on the first evening of the year,
laughing bitterly, reawakening a violent virus.
Still shattered in the wind.
The work swore it would be finished when
the impetus was completely exhausted, unimpeded, it’s possible
that the subterfuge will wake up in the face
of such a brilliant explosion,
I cleaned up spread the tablecloth,
a bit of air in the room I also emptied the rubbish
but who has the right to throw all the slime up
to my garden?
It would be a direct invitation to do the same
to the unknown neighbour,
very good at showing himself around an actor
of orthodox respectability,
but reason prevails and only ignorance moves me.
I open the door to the beggar
With floury fingers, I open the door to the beggar.
It’s a coincidence but he showed up at lunchtime.
Everyone knows him, they trust him, the priest introduced him,
he has a long history of suffering but I didn t investigate further.
I usually give him a few cent, cent I take out
of my bag.
At the door, without him stepping inside
I give him what I feel. A cordial greeting,
a casual joke,
the individual turns his back and goes away talking to someone
in the neighbourhood. I wait for the usual move,
another doorbell to ring and I start up again
doing what I have left to do, my hands still dirty with flour.
That day I had an intuition, a strange perception...
(to be continued)
Dressed meticulously first thing in the morning.
The cute combination, a perfect pendant
the wool jumper, a strange effect it hurt my elbow more than usual.
An acute discomfort, almost like a pin from a butcher’s broom.
I can't wear it all day, it envelops me with malice.
What an impertenance that itching.
It must be the wool which has been badly treated.
I was in some doubt about whether to keep it on
or immediately take it off, in the same way,
I can't stop myself and I break out into
a huge grin.
A smile without brakes, so big is the amazement given by that clothing, which has ended up in
my wardrobe, a bit of an intruder,
like an unexpected pinch.
Labels to exhibit
It would seem like a small thing to get rid of all those labels stuck by tour operators at the beginning of a trip placed with the utmost care by the check in , staff at the airport, in correspondence with hotel room numbers proudly placed on a dragged scratched burned trolley, muddy and sometimes lost.
The great goal is in an extraordinary vision
in observing those that are crumpled shadows which spring into view, maybe in the process of an end or of a new adventure.
A cloth and a bit of ethyl alcohol would be enough to forever eliminate numbers on numbers symbols crossed out and almost,
all of them deleted by time and by a history which is too far away.
Instead it’s postponed. It would almost be obvious to get the label out of the way as soon as it s no longer needed. But there have been too many times when from the trolley we’re on sitting in a short break between one route and another, or crowded with in front of the tourist bus, we caressed the mythical stickers. Great goals…
(to be continued)